May 2019 – Ray Bendici

hero work

May 192019

NON-WARNING: READ AT YOUR OWN LEISURE, THERE ARE NO SPOILERS AHEAD

So like the rest of the known universe, I recently saw Avengers: Endgame. And unlike most of the theater-going masses, I kept my pants on throughout.

I mean, I liked it, just didn’t love it. Certainly, there were scenes and moments that were amazing and that I’d really enjoying watching again … but I’m not sure I’d pay $12 to sit through the entire 3+ hours a second time.

While I was watching, however, it occurred to me that the Avengers have this enormous, sprawling complex and … well … there’s no one there but a half dozen or so Avengers. (And don’t try to peddle me that “Marvel/Disney can’t afford extras” malarkey!) I understand that the focus of the movie is on them (it’s in title, I get it), but it seems to me that given what they do and the scope of their operation, there should be support personnel hanging about, right?

Like, I know that Tony Stark is big on robots, tech and artificial intelligence, but even he needs Happy to drive him places (and keep Spider-man out of trouble). So, even with bleeding edge tech, the Avengers complex should be teeming with friendly human faces—teamwork to make the dream work, as it were.

For example:

Cleaning crew—Okay, the MCU addressed this somewhat in Spider-man: Homecoming with the Vulture’s company tidying up the city after the Battle of New York. But what about just keeping the Avengers complex spic and span?

Even if the place has self-cleaning sinks and showers, what about dust? Who is vacuuming the couch, wiping Thor’s cheesepuff-stained fingerprints off all the glass displays, or collecting his empty beer cans? Who’s tackling a toilet the day after Hulk has downed a few dozen tacos? Plungers, assemble!

Costume and laundry team—Yes, Tony Stark builds his own Iron Man suits, but who is Black Widow going to for her skin-tight leather outfits? And who is sewing her into those, not to mention getting out the sweat, blood and stains after a day of battling aliens? Can’t exactly toss those into a washing machine. Someone’s at least got to take them to Edna Mode for dry cleaning.

Besides, Thor’s trousers and tunics didn’t let themselves out. Bruce Banner shreds clothes every single time he Hulks out—who is replenishing his wardrobe? And what about the “regular” togs the team wears between missions? Pretty sure Steve Rogers isn’t cruising the Old Navy at the local galleria for a pair of jeans, or even washing his own sweats after destroying a half dozen punching bags.

Food service—We all know how much the Avengers love their shawarma, but it’s not like they can go out for it every night. Someone has to put together meals for the team, and given their constant physical exertion, they must pack away the calories.

We know Black Widow makes a mean peanut butter sandwich, but I’m pretty sure a Russian super spy isn’t heading over to the local Shop-Rite to buy her own Skippy. Even if they order all their food through Peapod, someone has to take the delivery and stock the pantry.

Legal team—Obviously Stark Industries has a battery of attorneys to protect Tony’s propriety inventions, but what insurance and protection do the other Avengers have? Who does Hulk turn to when he gets sued after accidentally smashing someone’s car or house or office building? What about electronics wrecked when Thor discharges lightning?

Given the amount of damage sustained, cities flattened and widespread carnage on any given adventure, there would need to be a legal team the size of Wakanda to handle all the claims. It’s not like they can just snap all their legal woes away.

Medical team—Seriously, the Avengers are beaten, bruised and bloodied constantly. Who provides the necessary first aid and surgery? We’ve seen Dr. Bruce Banner occasionally patch up team members, but he’s not a neurologist who can treat them for the multiple concussions incurred during so many incredibly violent fights. I mean, after getting knocked around by Thanos and broken open during a battle, Captain America isn’t going to the local walk-in for stitches.

And what about just the normal preventative care stuff? I doubt Black Widow is meandering over to Dr. Newsbaum, OB-GYN, for exams. Oh, and lets’s talk about dental care—they all have gorgeous white teeth, despite constantly being in fist fights. Smiles isn’t where Hulk is going for a root canal.

Armaments makers and mechanics—To paraphrase Jack Nicholson’s Joker, “Where do they get all those wonderful toys?”

Again, we know Tony Stark builds his own weapons, but you never seen Hawkeye crafting a quiver full of normal arrows, not to mention all the gimmick ones. War Machine and Black Widow go through bullets and rockets as if they have an infinite supply, but you never see either at the local ammo shop stocking up.

Plus, there’s a fleet of cars, planes, motorcycles and other modes of transportation that seem to be endlessly at their disposal—perfectly maintained, fueled and ready around the clock. Who takes care of it all? Given the way the Avengers abuse their vehicles, just keeping any one primed and running would require a full-time NASCAR pit crew.

Oh well … maybe at some point in the next 22 movies, Marvel/Disney will show some love to Tim, the Avengers’ landscaper. That lawn isn’t going to re-sod itself after Endgame!

guy night out

May 122019

So on a recent Saturday night, something suddenly came up and my dinner plans fell through. It was a somewhat pleasant night (finally), so rather than sit home alone with the remote and a plate of cheese and crackers, I did something I never do: I went out to dine by myself.

Yeah, it had been a looooong week. I wanted to be around people, but not exactly with anyone. If that makes sense. Besides, didn’t Ernest Hemingway hit bars by himself all the time? And look how that worked out for him!

So I pulled up my bootstraps, mustered whatever pluck I had laying around, and found my way to a hip brew pub about 15 minutes from my house. Even though I don’t really go for any of the 117 local craft brews on tap there, I really like the food and vibe.

When I get there, the place is busy but not overwhelming. Perfect! I take a deep breath and head inside.

In the back of my mind, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” cues up. Not that I’m the lyrical storyteller he is, but I can see pieces sort of coming together.

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in …”

Okay, more like six o’clock—I ain’t no 30-year-old wild man! I find a stool at the bar and then order a glass of water and mozzarella sticks because, you know, I’m a wild man like that.

I pretend to focus on the college baseball game on the TV over the bar, but I’m really glancing around surreptitiously. Couples are dining together, some laughing, some chatting, some in stony silence staring anywhere but at one another. Other couples, trios, quartets, etc. drink, eat and interact socially. The place isn’t exactly teeming with odd characters, which is fine. I don’t see any real estate novelists, although I’m not sure that anyone really has.

As an inveterate people watcher, I’ve often observed people who are alone at bars or restaurants. I try to not pass judgement, but I do tend to whip up back stories as to why they might be on their own in that particular instance. “Hey, bet that guy in the jacket is an international diamond thief who is laying up here until a fence can be found for the cache of jewels he has hidden in the sole of his sneakers.” Or “That lady at the bar with the burger and glass of white wine is a seventh-grade science teacher who just had the worst Match date at a coffee bar an hour earlier with a recently separated guy who is ‘in between’ careers and ‘temporarily’ staying with his elderly parents, neither of which was mentioned in his profile.”

I’m sure anyone watching me dip my mozzarella sticks in marinara is thinking, “Whoa, check out that super cool, bad-ass, off-duty special forces dude. I want to be with/like him.” Surely not, “Yup, there’s a dork biding his time until he’s abducted by a pack of melonheads and turned into their brood queen.”

“It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday …”

On one side of me is a group of a half dozen middle-aged friends/couples celebrating some event, although it could just be that it is Saturday night. They definitely have been here for a while and are well into the libations, barely this side of sloppy drunk. Overly loud, stumbling and slurring, they seem very excited about taking a number of group selfies from different angles, and then racing to post them on social media—like the college kids they still think they are do!

By the comments that I can’t avoid overhearing, I feel like they all have known and tried to outdrink/swing with one another for decades, with varying levels of success.

“Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinkin’ alone …”

Farther down the bar is a couple in which the female wearing a tattered baseball cap looks to be at least 20 years older than her purposefully mustachioed hipster date. A cougar in its natural habitat? Rowr!

Their overly aggressive public displays of affection are not sitting right with the last bites of mozzarella sticks, but I power through and order a hot dog smothered with bacon and cheese. You know, because I’m still wild like that.

“And the waitress is practicing politics, as the businessmen slowly get stoned …”

On the side of me and down a few stools is a group of grizzled bar regulars. They seem pretty focused on mixing shots and beers, and giving the young female bartenders a hard time.

I don’t catch what precipitates it, but a bartender who I think may actually be a manager (she’s been here every time I’ve been here for the past year or two) throws up her hands and loudly declares to one of the guys, “Sorry, but I’m not talking to you any more!” All his buddies chorus together like, “OOOOH! You’re in trouble.” Except the bartender doesn’t look like she is joking, and sure enough, assiduously avoids that part of the bar until the group leaves.

When it initially happens, I consciously slide my barstool a few inches away from the hyena pack so as not to be inadvertently included among them. Not to be all white knighty, but like many of you, my patience for this kind of “locker room” shenanigans is absolute zero nowadays. This isn’t helping repair the damage done by decades of societal misogyny, to say the least.

Look, I understand the situation in a sense—the bartenders are all female and all busty, or at least dressed to give the impression of being busty. (Think Renaissance faire, but without the ill-fitting corsets, smoked turkey drumsticks and the “Huzzah!”s.) And of course, they’re being friendly to try and boost their tips ….

BUT that isn’t an invitation for anyone to be crude and/or offensive. And yet somehow not everyone understands that, no matter how much it’s pointed out. Sigh.

When I get my tab later, I ultimately make sure the tip exceeds 20 percent, you know, because that’ll somehow make up for some other guy being a dick. Even though I know it doesn’t work like that.

“There’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin …”

At some point, a guy who I’d peg as in his mid 60s comes in and sits down next to me at the bar. I can tall by his posture that he wants to engage me in conversation, but I’m tired and just trying to mind my own business. When my full dinner arrives—the aforementioned hot dog smothered in bacon and cheese (Hey, I ran 5 miles this morning!), he leans over and says, “Now that looks GOOD!”

I say, “Yeah, it does, thanks!” And I politely end the conversation there. He leans in as if to invite more conversation, but again, I’m just not feeling like a lot of conversation tonight. He then drains his second beer in about 2 minutes, gets up and quickly departs, letting the front door slam behind him. Not quite sure what was going on there, just happy I avoided it.

I polish off my dinner, debate about having dessert, and decide I’m not that much of a wild man tonight. I pay my tab, take another look around ….

“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum …”

Yeah, I guess I’m finally feelin’ alright. I nod to the bartender, go out the door, and head home for what’s left of Saturday night.

let’s be friends

May 052019

So I was recently enjoying a welcome spring eve on the front veranda, exchanging pleasantries through the ether with my sister The Whore via the latest iteration of Bell’s wireless communicator.

As we talked, I was just sort of looking up and down my street, mindlessly watching the cars go by, neighbors walking their dogs, and kids happily cavorting without care. After a few minutes, I noticed the 8-year-old girl who spends a lot of time at her grandmother’s abode across the street. She was playing with another girl from down the street (I think) who is the same size and, I’m guessing, age. They were both jumping on and off their bright, streamer-festooned bikes, and running around the yard, jumping, screaming and doing who the heck knows what.

(Disclaimer: I know the girl’s name, see her regularly, and have talked to her a number of times—her aunt used to babysit my kids back in the day, and the family has been good neighbors for nearly two decades. I go out of my way to NOT be the neighborhood creeper, thank you very much.)

Anyway, I was still chatting with The Whore a few minutes later when I noticed the two girls were now filling their mouths from water bottles, and then going to stand together in the middle of the street where they just let the water dribbled out of their mouths and down their chins. I’m not sure exactly what they were doing or why, but it was silly and goofy and just endearing as hell. They were both laughing hysterically and having the best of times, with nary a phone or electronic device in sight.

In short: THEY WERE PLAYING TOGETHER! LIKE KIDS!

The madness, right?

I described the scene to my sister and what we were really witnessing—the birth of a beautiful friendship. Effortlessly bonding and joyously building what ideally will be a lifelong relationship.

I’ve been lucky in that, despite struggling with shyness, I’ve always been able to make friends, and lifelong friends at that. I’ve been friends with the notorious Senior Smoke since 3rd grade (we learned to paint on cave walls together). I have multiple friends from grade school who I talk/text to regularly. I don’t have any brothers, yet I’ve somehow managed to be a best man five times. So yeah, I’ve sorted out the concept of building friendships to some extent.

But not everyone learns how to do it so well. For example, one of my sons is very introverted and spends a lot of time by himself. Fortunately, although he’s alone, he never seems to be lonely. I want him to make more friends, and broaden his horizons and experiences a bit, except he’s just not all that interested in it. I guess I want to make sure he has someone to hang out with in case I get abducted by aliens or accidentally dragged to my death by my car (again). But you can’t force these things, I suppose.

Ultimately, making friends is a uniquely human experience, right? I mean, no other species really has the same concept. Sure, domesticated animals that live together in the same space might occasionally be friendly—we’ve all seen videos of cats and dogs interacting. But it’s not like they’re calling each other to spend the day at the beach, then go to the mall for pizza, hit the arcade to play a few games of Zaxxon, and cruise the Post Road trying to meet West Haven skeezers. (Which is what my buddy Milo and I did on any day we weren’t working during our college summer breaks.) Hamsters and parrots don’t stand in line together for 6 hours to see Return of the Jedi on opening night, like I did 36 (!) years ago this month with my friend Chris. Even though dolphins will hunt (and rape) other animals together, they don’t gather together every New Year’s Eve to watch Showgirls like it’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show, as I did with Big Balls Bob and his wife before we all had kids.

True friends have your back, and are there to celebrate and commiserate, often without asking. You look forward to and enjoy their company without reservation, and consequently often spend more of your life with them than actual blood relatives. Everyone understands what “a friend” is, even if they are incapable of making or keeping them.

However, some days it’s a challenge to figure out who is just someone you know who does the same things (say like a coworker) or clicks a button on a social media to earn the title, and who is someone who will stand in the middle of the street with you and laugh hard as water just dribbles down your face, even years later.

Sooo, here’s:

10 Ways to Tell if Someone is Actually Still Your Friend

They take the time to text you when the Jets are winning to say, “Stop smirking—your team still sucks.”
When you say, “This is …” they immediately respond, “chocolate babies.” Ditto for the best lines from your favorite obscure movies, such as “I kick ass for the Lord!“
They have more hope than you do that you’ll eventually hook up with your longtime crush.
They remember you have a blog, and occasionally still read it.
They do NOT text/email pictures of clowns on your birthday, even though they really want to.
When news breaks about aliens, bigfoots, Loch Ness monsters or other supernatural events, they reach out immediately. For instance, when Lorraine Warren recently died, I received more texts than articles I’ve written about local hauntings. (Side note: Still waiting for Lorraine to reach out from The Other Side—maybe like a message written in the condensation of the bathroom mirror after a shower: “Ed & I are always watching! So stop touching yourself so much—no one’s butt is that itchy.”
Speaking of, they know the chances of you being abducted by aliens are dramatically higher than your chances of ascending into heaven, or spontaneously human combusting. And they understand your ultimate demise will come, rather appropriately, courtesy of the melonheads.
When they invite you to dinner, they never serve anything smothered in onions or any sort of giant bug with claws from under the sea. And there’s always a chocolate-themed dessert because they also live by the incontrovertible rule it’s not dessert if it doesn’t have chocolate.
They smile, nod and even still chuckle a bit no matter how many times you overshare the details of your colonoscopy.
Even if you don’t hang out like you used to do, you still find the absolute silliest things to laugh at. You know, because even though you may get older and go down different paths, those goofy, water-spitting friends are always somewhere inside you.